


slip under my armour

by fiveandnocents



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Because apparently I can't write fic without those two tags, Blow Jobs, Hangups, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveandnocents/pseuds/fiveandnocents
Summary: It's not like Brady hasn't ever hooked up with teammates before (or one teammate, many times, but the difference between those two things isn't the point), which is exactly why he knows that it's a terrible idea.So, this sorta-thing with Jimmy? Not gonna happen.





	slip under my armour

**Author's Note:**

> I blame tumblr and Brady Skjei's charming oh-shucks smile and the fact that Charlie Lindgren and Brady Skjei went to high school together for why this is so long. Ignore any timeline of anything ever and just enjoy references. Also tagging this was all kinds of impossible for me so if you think I'm missing something that needs to be tagged please let me know :)
> 
> Title from Alone by Halsey because it reminds me of Times Square for reasons I don't fully understand

When Brady and Jimmy move in together, the first thing Brady should say is, “Hey, by the way, I’m gay.” Instead, what he actually says is, “Do you know how to use the stove?”

Brady had tried (tentatively, because burning down their apartment on the first day wasn't exactly going to endear himself to Jimmy), but it’s one of those ones with an actual flame instead of a button to turn on one of the burners. It had clicked menacingly at him until Brady had panicked and twisted the knob back to off. It had stopped the clicking, so technically speaking, he’s halfway to mastering the stove already.

Jimmy comes over to stand next to him and he reaches a hand out towards the stove before stopping, hovering over the knobs like that could will them into imparting some kind of culinary wisdom. He turns his head to the right, to the left, and then decisively pulls his hand back with a shake of his head.

“Nope,” he says, shrugging. “Pizza?”

Brady grins and knows right then that things are going to work out just fine between them. “Hell yeah.”

\---

He could bring it up later, when they’re scouring the aisles of Bed Bath & Beyond for anything they can find that looks even remotely familiar or useful, but Jimmy and him start laughing at toothbrush holders for twenty minutes and it just kind of slips his mind.

\---

It ends up not really being an issue, because it turns out Jimmy just seems to _know_. Or maybe he doesn’t exactly know, per se, but he’s at least aware that Brady doesn’t really mind it when a guy hits on him in a bar or that Brady is way more interested in how Thor’s arms look in the first Avengers movie than he is in Scarlett Johansson’s leather body suit. 

It’s cool, having a bro that doesn’t need to talk about it and ask invasive, inane questions about how it feels to give a blowjob or other shit he’s heard a million times. Jimmy doesn’t even have the pathological straight guy issue with changing in front of Brady or being uncomfortable walking around with limited clothing when they’re just hanging out around the apartment on an off day. He doesn’t flinch or subtly shift away from casual touch either, like when Brady wraps an arm around his shoulder or that time when he rested his head on Jimmy’s leg when he had to lie down and ice his hip after a shitty hit to the boards the night after they played the Devils. Jimmy had even ran his fingers through Brady’s hair, which always felt awesome and it hadn't been the first time that he thought that Jimmy was the best and it won't be the last. Brady’s never met a straight guy so chill with - 

Oh.

\---

The thing is, Brady thinks he knows what's going on, is actually about 97% sure that he knows exactly what’s going on (and he took calculus at the U so his math is solid as fuck), but there's still a chance he's wrong. He just wants to be sure. 

Which is why the next time some of the vets bring them out to lunch after practice, he makes sure to sit across from Jimmy instead of next to him and he ignores Jimmy's questioning glance. He only has a vague game plan sketched out in his mind: a toe knock at the beginning, a casual calf rub if Jimmy responds positively - just to see if it’s an accident back or if Jimmy really is down for a sneaky game of footsie - and then a strategic retreat that neither confirms nor denies Brady's investment in the situation. 

He takes an unfortunately unsubtle breath to psych himself up - Mats raises an eyebrow at him like the nosy bastard he is - and takes an unnecessarily large bite of his pasta to distract himself from the gentle tap he gives to Jimmy’s foot. Brady leaves it there, feels like he’s making a statement, and this is the most emotionally charged game of footsie he’s ever had and they haven't even done anything yet. 

Jimmy catches his eye when he flicks his gaze over and Brady’s face heats embarrassingly fast. He pretends to be really interested in Mac’s old man story about the street performer he’d seen the other day because he is a coward and a disappointment. 

When he feels less like his face is melting, he steels himself for stage two of his questionable plan, moves his foot the tiniest bit, and freezes when Jimmy gives him a fondly exasperated look like he knows exactly what's going on in Brady's head. Jimmy shakes his head and wraps his feet around the ankle that Brady was moving, anchoring them together under the table. Brady’s ears tingle with the heat of his blush. Jimmy’s foot taps against his once and then doesn’t move again for the rest of the meal. 

It’s stupid how flustered Brady feels from juvenile levels of flirting, but - it’s still flirting. He thought he’d be relieved at knowing Jimmy was interested in him - and he is selfishly pleased to have his curiosity settled - but there’s a new level of stress he feels because it’s one thing if he has a raging crush on Jimmy, but it’s a completely different thing if Jimmy wants him back. 

—

It's not like Brady hasn't ever hooked up with teammates before (or one teammate, many times, but the distinction between those two things isn't the point), which is exactly why he knows that it's a terrible idea. 

He's painfully aware that he's probably Charlie’s horror story. That closeted boyfriend that pushed him away and made fun of him in public so that no one would think anything else was going on in private, which didn’t even make sense in the first place because Charlie always had a girlfriend, even if it was never the same one. 

And that was just even more dumb because Brady remembers feeling sick with jealousy when the boys teased Charlie about Addie or Lisa or whoever, when most of the time he was the one who brought her up in the first place to deflect someone’s attention away from him when they caught Brady staring at Charlie a little too long in the locker room. 

He confronted Charlie about it once, like he had any right. He’d shoved at Charlie’s chest and he didn't even move because Charlie was a skinny kid, but Brady hadn't been able to really pack on muscle at sixteen the way he can now. He'd been geared up for a fight, a full out screaming match for the ages, but Charlie had just wrapped his hands around Brady’s wrists and kissed him, gentle and loving, and Brady had melted like sap. 

“I'll break up with her,” Charlie had whispered against Brady’s lips. Brady had breathed out all of his anger in a pleased sigh, but then Charlie had opened his mouth again. “I'll come out for you.”

All the air had frozen in Brady’s lungs and he can still remember the way his heart had been beating a crescendo of orchestra-like proportions out of his chest, because it was - Charlie couldn't do that. 

“Don't,” he’d snapped, pulling away and feeling sick with anxious nausea. His hands had been shaking like they'd been trying to grab the NHL dream he could practically see falling away. “I’m not _like_ you. That's not what this is and - you don’t get it. I can't be out. I’m gonna go pro and you’re not go-” _Not good enough_. 

He had stopped himself, because he had some modicum of self-control even back then, but it had been too late anyway. 

He still remembers the way Charlie had looked at him like he’d torn his heart into pieces and then burned them in the shape of betrayal to scar into the rest of his body. The memory of it, the devastation, still makes his skin crawl.

He doesn't know what Charlie’s doing now. It's not like he couldn't easily find him on Facebook, but every time he thinks he's going to do it, send a message and apologize for being a dick, he panics, shuts his laptop, and leaves the room to pick up his guitar. 

So, this sorta-thing with Jimmy? Not gonna happen. 

\---

Everyone has jerked it to highlight reels now and again, a fact which has been proven over and over again through his many years playing ice breaking Never-Have-I-Ever games with new teammates. Jonathan Toews was an admitted sexual awakening for a shocking number of them and Brady was only the hormone-riddled age of sixteen when Tyler Seguin first got to the NHL, so yes, he'd watched a lot of hockey while rubbing one out back in the day. 

The point is, when Brady gets hard during their game against the Sens, it’s fine. It’s normal. It has nothing to do with Jimmy other than the fact that he’s the one who had just made an absolutely gorgeous goal and is skating back to fist bump the bench. If half the guys on the team didn't still see him and Jimmy as literal kindergarteners, he's sure they would've had the same problem right now too. 

Jimmy slumps into the spot next to Brady on the bench and his cheeks are still flushed pink from his last shift, but it’s fine. Brady’s fine.

The fans are still going crazy - _as they should be_ he thinks proudly - so Brady has to yell to be heard over their screams. “Fuckin’ beauty, man!”

Jimmy grins back at him and Brady’s struck by the way Jimmy’s still breathing hard, eyes bright from the adrenaline of a goal. His pupils are wide in a way that Brady recognizes and would probably see mirrored back at him if he was near any kind of reflective surface right now. 

It’s the most inappropriate time, surrounded by their teammates and a couple thousand fans, but it’s not like Brady is planning on following through with anything. He licks his lips, sees the way Jimmy follows the movement with his eyes, and pats Jimmy’s knee, lingering just enough for Jimmy to notice.

Coach taps him on the shoulder and Brady reflexively jumps over the boards for his next shift. He can feel Jimmy’s eyes on him and his skin feels too tight and too hot under his pads, but it’s probably best that they have a game to play. 

\---

Brady and Jimmy convince Haysie to stay late after practice through mutual yet reluctant agreement that they need the extra ice time after their most recent loss against Montreal (because seriously, _Montreal?_ ) and the day either of them stops mooching off of Haysie for a ride is the day the world ends. 

Haysie has a soft spot for them that’s visible from space, so he stays, practices a few line rushes with Jimmy while Brady defends until he finally says, “Alright kids, I’m gonna bike and shower, you have half an hour or else I’m leaving without your sorry asses,” as if it were even physically possible for him to abandon them.

They legitimately practice for roughly another ten minutes, but Jimmy makes a stupid fake goal past Brady and it starts a scuffling match that doesn’t really end. They're just fucking around really, any attempt at practicing is truly dead and Brady can't stop giggling as Jimmy races after him on the ice. 

He almost falls flat on his face when Jimmy crashes into his back and Brady reaches back reflexively to keep himself upright. It turns him so they're facing each other, their momentum stymied by the leisurely spin they end up drifting into. 

The cold air feels good in his lungs and he can’t took away from Jimmy’s smile, even as it slowly drops the longer Jimmy stares at Brady’s mouth. 

Jimmy licks his lips. “Brady…”

His breath is warm as he leans in and Brady can't move, is paralyzed by the mix of right and panic. His skates save him, enough of his weight on the back of them that they start to slide him gently backwards without any conscious effort. 

“Let’s head back, yeah? Pretty sure we’re cutting it close.”

Jimmy stares at him for a too-long moment, just enough that Brady gets fidgety, but then Jimmy nods easily and knocks his shoulder against Brady’s to nudge him into skating together to the tunnel.

The ride home isn’t awkward, which is weird, but Jimmy acts completely normal, like it doesn’t even bother him.

\---

Okay, so he's physically attracted to Jimmy. He's self-aware enough to admit that, but it's just a crush, is the thing, and getting over a little crush would be hilariously easy if they didn't _live together_. Brady gets too used to having Jimmy in his home and in his life and the domesticity of it all doesn't help either. 

They eat together, practice together, and watch too much television to probably be healthy on their days off; Brady hasn't spent this much consecutive time with anyone ever and it's not like he actually _wants_ to sit farther away from Jimmy on the couch or eat anything but takeout, so he just... doesn't.

Instead he tries not to hum to himself as he washes the three forks and fifty mugs they own while Jimmy narrates game five of the Cubs-Indians World Series.

"Dude, the Cubs don't have a chance. I will bet you actual money on this."

Brady scoffs. "We have thousands of dollars, no thanks. Offer me something good and I'll take you up on it. It's the Cubs year, man. I can feel it."

Jimmy looks at him, bewildered, more than having faith in the underdog deserves. "I'll do your laundry for the next month," he says, eyes on Brady's mouth in a way that's becoming more and more typical.

"Easy win. Let's shake on it," Brady agrees, because there is no universe where he wouldn't accept that bet, but the moment he says it he notices the way the words slush around in his mouth and he flushes bright red.

Any hope that Jimmy didn't notice is snuffed out when Jimmy sits up straighter and incredulously asks, “Are you lisping? Since when do you have a lisp?”

Brady wants to die, but his fight or flight instinct betrays him. “Shut up, I just put in my retainer.” Maybe if he scrubs this mug hard enough, it'll create a black hole that will hopefully swallow him up.

“You have a retainer,” Jimmy says in the same tone which somehow makes it seem like a question and not one at the same time. It does seem like judgement though, there's no ambiguity there. 

“Yeah, I had braces and yeah, it was lame and I'm gonna end up losing all my teeth anyway in a game, but I've gotten the we've-spent-so-much-money-on-your-teeth-you-better-take-care-of-them rant enough times to risk it.” Mom-sense isn't something to be trifled with and avoiding any disappointed looks makes it totally worth it for a lisp that no one would even hear if Brady was smart and had done the dishes before going to bed. 

Jimmy ignores his defensive rant for both of their sakes. “Dude, it's cute,” he says, and then smiles like everything is that simple and turns back to the tv.

Brady flushes and pointedly doesn’t respond. It's things like this that make getting over Jimmy impossible.

\---

Brady’s mom visits near the end of December because the Rangers don’t have more than a day off for the holidays and it’s hard to justify a six hour round-trip flight in the span of a day. Her flight lands right in the middle of practice and she brushes off his offers to pick her up in lieu of taking a taxi, so the first time he sees her is when he’s opening the door to his apartment. 

He barely has time to say hello before she’s hugging him and then shoving what seems to be the entirety of her walk-in closet into his open arms. 

He blindly stares at the duffel in his arms, glances between that and the suitcase at his feet. “Mom, what is this?” he asks, tentative.

She spares him the briefest of glances from where she’s started stocking his pantry with food from yet another bag - which, Brady wasn’t even aware they had a pantry, but he wasn’t exactly looking either - and says, “My luggage, honey,” which somehow comes out fond and exasperated in the way all moms seem to have perfected. 

“Why isn’t it at the hotel?” 

His mom laughs like Brady’s being funny (he’s not). “I’m not staying in a hotel when you have a perfectly fine guest room.”

“Mom,” he chokes out and then because it merits saying again, “ _Mom_ , we don’t have a guest room. Two rooms: one for me, one for Jimmy.”

She tuts at him, shutting the pantry door behind her before coming over to pat his cheek. “Don’t pretend like you use your room. I wasn’t born yesterday you know.”

“Wha - I _do_ use my room. It’s my room, why wouldn’t I - oh my god.” His jaw drops as it clicks and he’s blushing, there’s no use trying to pretend he’s not. “Mom, we’re not - Jimmy and I aren’t -”

“Shh,” she interrupts, patting his cheek again. “It’s fine, sweetie, now go put my bags in the guest room. I’ll make supper.” She floats away before he can respond, which is just par for the course really. 

He ends up having to clean his room, which he had only partially done in preparation for her visit to avoid a scolding. By the time he’s finished, he can smell the hearty flavor of hotdish, either previously prepared or made in record time. He follows his nose to it and stops in his tracks when he sees his mom and Jimmy chatting it up in the kitchen. Somehow Jimmy got conned into peeling apples for what Brady’s guessing is going to be some kind of apple crisp.

“Oh, Brady,” his mom says when she notices him standing in the doorway, “Jimmy says it’s fine if I stay in your room tonight." Because of course she asked Jimmy and of course he said yes, because he was raised right and wasn't going to say no to someone else's mother. She winks at him like they’re in on some kind of hilarious inside joke. 

Jimmy smiles at him, open and gentle and the protest dies on Brady’s tongue. He sighs and grabs a knife to help peel the apples. There’s really no way he’s going to win this one and he’s not sure he even wants to. 

Dinner is the type of normal that makes his heart ache; seeing his mom and Jimmy get along so well, watching her face light up fondly when he compliments her cooking and how she rubs the back of his head affectionately the same way she does to Brady after a long absence. She makes Brady and Jimmy do the dishes and when they're done, Jimmy excuses himself to his room for the rest of the night while Brady catches up with his mom.

Slipping under the sheets in Jimmy’s bed that night is something Brady’s trying not to think too hard about it as he does it.

Jimmy is laying on his stomach because he’s either never been told how bad that is for his neck or he just doesn’t care. He looks soft and warm when he opens his eyes to blink blearily at Brady.

“Hey,” he says, deep and gravely.

Brady’s heart clenches. “Hey, sorry I woke you.” He buries himself under the blankets and because he makes bad decisions, turns his head to look at Jimmy, running his eyes up the length of his back where it’s hidden underneath the covers, lingering over the curve of his neck and going up until he meets Jimmy’s sleepy gaze.

His breath sticks in his lungs for a second, but Jimmy rests his hand on Brady’s chest and all the air leaves him in a sigh.

Jimmy can probably feel his heart beating from where he has his hand on top of it. Brady wishes he were half-asleep too so this would be as easy for him as it is for Jimmy. He watches the shadows of Jimmy’s eyelashes when he closes his eyes, wants to reach out and trace the skin around them.

“Night, Brady,” Jimmy murmurs. He’s asleep by the time the words are fully out of his mouth. 

Brady is awake for a while longer, feeling the weight of Jimmy’s hand on his chest and listening to his fluttering breaths. He could sleep, the tendrils of exhaustion are practically licking at the edges of his consciousness already, but he just - he needs to have this moment.

\---

They're sitting on the couch, Brady squished against one arm so he can stretch his legs out along the cushions just the way he likes and Jimmy slouched into the corner of the L-shaped back because he has some sort of issue with watching the television at an angle even though it's way less comfortable to sit that way. 

They've been steadily making their way through a bottle of Captain Morgan with a single minded determination only those under 25 seem to be able to do. 

Brady can't really feel the tips of his fingers right now. 

He’s also this insanely good mix of relaxed and hyped, which probably explains why he keeps shifting around every few seconds. The drag of his sweatshirt across the skin of his arms makes his head buzz, so he keeps doing it, twists his wrists so the cuffs scrape him just right. His lips feel swollen and numb so he keeps dragging his teeth over them for more sensation, aching with the feeling of sensory deprivation. 

He startles when Jimmy lays a hand on his left leg to hold it down because he hadn't even noticed he was twisting his ankles together over and over, knocking against Jimmy's thighs in the process. 

“Jimmy,” Brady murmurs, voice quiet, almost blending into the noise from the television.

Jimmy looks at him, head spinning too far before he corrects and bobs back to face him head on. His eyes are glazed and Brady isn’t sure if he sees him for a second, but then his gaze sharpens, focuses on Brady’s mouth where he’s been licking his lips.

Brady’s really drunk. 

That's his only excuse for the way he looks at Jimmy with intent, head lolling back against the back of the couch, dragging a hand down his chest to rub the crease between his thigh and groin. It's clumsy, he can tell by the way his hand slips before he digs his nails in his thigh and drags upwards, but it doesn’t really matter. Brady knows how he looks and he knows that he looks even better when he turns it on, even if he is a little sloppy with it. 

Jimmy swallows audibly and Brady grins. Jimmy doesn’t seem to mind it a little sloppy.

He runs his hand down again, brushing the edge of his thumb against his cock in a subtle brush that would go unnoticed if Jimmy wasn't totally captivated by him right now.

Except maybe Jimmy would’ve noticed anyway, because Brady’s fully hard at this point and either the alcohol isn’t affecting his circulation at all (he doubts it, based on how his extremities feel fuzzy right now) or the idea of Jimmy watching him is that good. 

He didn’t know exhibitionism was his thing. 

Brady puts his hand on his cock, the outline of it obscene and filthy through his sweatpants. He’s not dressed for seduction in sweats and a hoodie, but even he can tell that the rumpled effect is working in his favor. His dick wouldn’t be as obvious in jeans and he takes complete advantage of the fact by cradling it in his palm so that Jimmy can see the full length and girth of it through his sweatpants. 

He wonders what Jimmy thinks of it.

Brady’s head has lolled back on the arm of the couch without his notice and lifting his head to see Jimmy’s reaction seems like too much work right now, so he keeps it there, rolls his neck to feel how his muscles move - and _fuck_ is everything sexy right now? He’s young, it’s unfair enough to be turned on by everything when he’s sober, much less when he’s drunk too.

He can still feel Jimmy’s eyes on him, his gaze like a physical weight on his hips, keeping them open and splayed wide so he can see better.

Brady strokes his cock slowly, teasing himself over his sweats, but it doesn’t take long for the burning under his skin to get to the point where he has to slip his hand underneath his waistband, grip himself loosely - because the tease is the best part, for this thing between him and Jimmy - and jerk himself roughly.

Jimmy’s hand travels up Brady’s leg from where it was resting on his ankle this whole time. The heat of his hand is like a brand, restless and tracing circles on his skin like a play where Brady’s dick is the goal and Jimmy ends up with the puck. He stops at Brady’s knee; maybe it’s the farthest Jimmy can reach without moving or maybe it’s where Jimmy’s set the line for himself, but it doesn’t matter because it means Brady is in control and he’s always up for that, except for the times where he wants it the other way around. 

It’s not an exception kind of night. 

Brady’s hand is rough against his cock, too much friction making him whine, but he can’t stop, just fuzzy enough that it feels more good than bad. His other hand is running a useless path through his own hair, messing it up beyond repair which would usually bother the shit out of him, but he can’t muster up any negative emotions about it right now. He pulls a little, on instinct rather than experience and it makes him shudder and bite his lip on a moan. 

“Jesus, Brady,” Jimmy says, and Brady lifts his head to look at him for the first time in what feels like hours. 

He was aware of Jimmy the whole time, focused on the heat of him watching to be honest, but he didn’t know how fucked up Jimmy looked, face flushed and lips swollen like he’d been biting them to hide any sounds. He can’t see Jimmy’s cock from the way he’s sitting and that’s disappointing because Brady wanted to see it, but Jimmy’s face is enough of an indication that he’s as turned on as Brady is right now.

“Jimmy,” Brady moans. He feels - he’s never felt this good from touching himself. He knows Jimmy is looking at him, wanting him, and he wants everything too.

His orgasm is a surprise and it isn’t at the same time. He twists his palm around the head the way he normally likes, but it’s the way Jimmy murmurs out, “Yeah, come on,” that does it, because his voice is deep and fucked and burning.

Brady’s back arches as he comes, striping the inside of his sweats with come. A little bit reaches up past his waistband to pool on his abdomen and he can hear Jimmy’s cut off little, “fuck,” when he notices. He lies there, panting, and is struck with the crazy urge to rub his come into his skin just to see what Jimmy would do. 

He still wants Jimmy, wants him with a hunger that he hadn’t expected after coming. He’s used to the slightly awkward walk of shame, not the comfortable satiation he feels now. 

Jimmy leans over, like he wants to lick the come from Brady’s abs or something equally (hot, incredible, sexy) ridiculous and Brady thinks of letting him do it, saying yes and ending the dance they’ve been doing around each other for months now.

Before he can say anything though, in a move that will shame him for years to come, Brady falls asleep. 

\---

When Brady wakes up, he’s wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, clean and no worse for wear other than the slight crick in his neck and the headache he absolutely deserves. He runs his hand over his stomach confusedly, because he’s pretty sure he came damn near everywhere, but his hand just slides over bare, dry skin. 

Jimmy cleaned him up. 

He flushes a little, imagining it. Brady passed out like a fucking kid that can’t handle their liquor and Jimmy cleaning him off - changing his pants for him even and wow, Brady really was out - before making sure he was as comfortable as could be on their absolute garbage can of a couch. 

He's embarrassed, yeah. But he also likes the idea of Jimmy taking care of him, wants to return the favor a little. 

He wonders if Jimmy jerked off too and then decides that he absolutely did, because the last thing Brady remembers seeing is Jimmy looking at him with eyes hazy from arousal. He wonders what Jimmy thought about, jerking off alone in his room after taking care of Brady. It’s him, obviously, but he wants to know what about him Jimmy likes the most, what he wants to do to Brady and what he wants Brady to do to him in return. Maybe they can - 

Brady shakes his head and gets up to stumble into his room. It's a stupid idea anyway. 

\---

When Brady stumbles sleepily into the kitchen, he doesn’t expect to see Jimmy there already, blearily getting a pot of coffee together. 

Jimmy looks up, nods at him in greeting and goes back to fiddle with the pot. Brady isn’t sure he actually knows how to work it yet, seems to just luck into getting it to work every time and then inevitably forget how the next day, but it’s their only source of caffeine in the mornings since Haysie’s idea of settling his bet with Jimmy about the sushi was to buy them a shitty coffee machine. It’s not even a Keurig. 

Brady would rather go back to bed for another three hours than even attempt to help Jimmy wrangle the coffee machine into submission, but they have practice so he musters up enough strength from within and starts reheating the breakfast scramble his mom gave them industrial amounts of the last time she stopped by. 

He’s staring blankly at the plate spinning in the microwave when Jimmy’s arms slide around his waist. His nose tickles the back of Brady’s neck, but he’s also warm and makes him feel better than another nap under his covers would.

Brady reaches a hand up to gently tangle his fingers between Jimmy’s and maybe if it was another time of day, the moment would feel charged, but instead it’s the most comfortable he’s been in weeks. 

The coffee machine sputters to a stop at the same time the microwave beeps.

Brady’s heart sinks in ways he tries to ignore when he thinks about having to move, and then he feels Jimmy press a kiss to his shoulder before he lets go, filling two travel mugs for the car ride to the rink. His skin tingles where Jimmy touched him. He shakes his head, and as he gets their food set up on plates, he realizes that it’s the first time that Jimmy’s pulled away first. 

\---

The team goes out after a satisfying OT win against the Lightning and when Brady goes to the bar to grab the next round of drinks, it takes less than thirty seconds for a guy to approach him.

He’s tall, like, reaching seven feet type of tall, and he’s skinnier than Brady would usually go for (because yes, his type is athletes, he is a beautiful cliché) and it’s not like Brady was really looking to pull tonight, but he’s also in the mood to say yes. 

So he says yes to the drink the guy offers to buy him even though the bartender comes back with an entire tray full of shots for the team and he leans into the hand the guy lays on his forearm.

They’re in the middle of a surprisingly interesting conversation about the Chicago Bears of all things when an arm slides around Brady’s shoulders.

“This guy bothering you?” Jimmy asks, making himself stand wider like he’s some kind of bruiser. His arm tightens around Brady, trying to pull him closer so Brady has to lean to his right to stay upright.

“No,” Brady says. 

The look Jimmy gives him would be funny if he wasn’t doing it while Brady was in the middle of picking up. 

“Uh…” Jimmy starts, his arm dropping from around Brady’s shoulder. He looks between Brady and John or Paul or whatever his name was before he rests on Brady’s face. “You sure?” he asks hesitantly. 

“Yeah, pretty sure, man.” He tries to convey his sincerity with his eyes which he’s been told from credible sources can be sweeter than a puppy with cotton candy so it’s his best chance at this point. 

“Oh,” Jimmy says. He takes an awkward step back and makes an even more awkward gesture to the table where the rest of the guys are still sitting. “Sorry, I’ll just. Bring the guys their drinks then.”

Brady watches him head back to the table where he brushes off Haysie’s warm welcome to sit forlornly in the booth. He’s visibly upset in a way that makes Brady feel guilty, but Jimmy’s never had a problem when Brady’s stepped back from...everything before, so it’s shifting his entire mindset. He thought he had a solid understanding of how Jimmy viewed this not-thing between them, but apparently he was wrong. 

The guy (he’s pretty sure it was John. Like, would-bet-his-signing-bonus-on-it type of sure) clears his throat, but it’s the kind of loud where it’s clearly fake and only done to get Brady’s attention. He doesn’t roll his eyes because the guy has been nothing but nice to him, but he definitely isn’t as genial as he could be when he drags his eyes away from Jimmy and says, “Sorry, what?”

The guy had a full glass before Jimmy had interrupted them and it’s empty now, ice clinking as he sets it down on the bar. “I’m not really interested in being anyone’s revenge hook up, so I’m gonna head out.” He looks alarmingly genuine and also like he’s handling Brady with kid gloves knitted from pity yarn.

“What?” Brady asks between a laugh.

“Trouble in paradise, right? Look, man, you’re cute, but not worth the trouble of getting in the middle of some kind of couples spat.”

Brady has always been an expressive person, so he’s not surprised when he realizes his jaw had dropped while the guy was speaking. He can only stutter out random sounds that he hopes ends up being words, which isn’t exactly the most effective way of convincing the guy that he’s got the wrong idea. 

The guy smiles at him - and that is definitely pity on his face, what the hell - and he waves over the bartender to buy Brady another drink.

“Hope you can work things out,” he says, tapping Brady on the elbow before he walks away. It’s the weirdest and most polite rejection that Brady’s ever had and he grew up in Minnesota: Land of Passive Aggression. Granted, his college hook ups were mostly orchestrated in frat houses, but his point still stands. 

He considers staying at the bar and looking available. It would only take a matter of time before someone else approached him, but he’s not really feeling it anymore, too shaken up by a complete stranger’s assumptions to be up for another round of half-assed flirting that may or may not lead to sex. 

Haysie greets him with an unintelligible shout and pulls Brady down to sit in his lap. Brady doesn’t push him off the way Jimmy did because Haysie treating him like normal makes him feel normal, instead of like he’s in this twilight zone he can’t escape from. 

“Rejected, huh?” he shouts into Brady’s ear, making him wince. “It’s okay. You’re still young. You can pick up old men for at least a few more years.”

Brady rolls his eyes and elbows Haysie in the chest. “He wasn’t that old. Shut up.” He sneaks a glance at Jimmy who hasn’t said a word since Brady sat down. His face is half hidden by his glass, but Brady can still see the way his eyebrows are uncharacteristically furrowed. 

“Still old. You’re young, you should be find other hot young things to fuck around with. Right, Jimmy?”

Jimmy jumps, almost drops his glass as he turns to look at them. “What?” he asks, blinking like he has to in order to focus on Haysie’s face. 

Haysie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he just squishes Brady’s cheeks, ignores his half-hearted attempts to squirm away and asks, “Don’t you think Brady should get with some handsome young man like himself?”

“I…” Jimmy trails off, looking even more confused than before. “Wait, you know he’s gay?”

Something in his voice makes Brady tense up, even though it doesn’t make sense. It’s not like Jimmy would actually have a problem with him, but Haysie picks up on it too and his hand drops down from Brady’s face to wrap around his waist, like he can shield Brady from any slight against his character.

“Don’t be weird about it or else I’ll make your face weird.” It’s not Haysie’s best threat, but he’s drunk and also loves Jimmy like a little brother, so Brady appreciates the thought behind it anyway.

Jimmy looks stricken. “No, I’m not - that’s not what I meant.”

“Good,” Haysie says, but Brady can tell he still doesn’t quite believe him because his grip on Brady doesn’t lessen up. “So, you agree then? Brady needs a guy his own age?” He sounds like he’d fight if Jimmy disagrees, so Jimmy nods his head and makes eye contact with Brady for the first time since he left the bar.

“Yeah, I do.”

\---

When they head home, Brady braces himself for a long, earnest conversation about their feelings, but Jimmy just ducks his head and pointedly shuts his door behind him.

It should be a relief, but Brady still has trouble getting to sleep that night.

\---

“No, you know what? We’re talking about this,” Jimmy yells at him the next morning, bursting into Brady’s room before he’s even made any effort to get out of bed. 

Brady whines and buries his head underneath his pillow because he’s on the wrong side of drunk and Jimmy doesn’t yell often enough for him to be used to it. “What?” Brady asks because his brain isn't awake enough for him to catch on to what Jimmy is upset about this early in the morning. 

Jimmy flips him over and sits on his thighs so that Brady can’t immediately flip back over to hide. It's not how he's imagined Jimmy in his bed; he may throw up and it'll be Jimmy’s fault so he's just going to have to deal. 

“You’re gay?” Jimmy asks incredulously, which seems impossible because Brady feels like he has the monopoly on incredulous emotions once he realizes what Jimmy actually asked him. 

“Uh, yeah? Wasn’t that - I thought that was obvious. I thought you knew.” He's fairly certain that he's showed Jimmy he was gay almost every day for the past couple of weeks. Was he just imagining their never-ending dancing around each other? Is Brady unable to tell when someone is into him anymore? 

“Every time you pulled away,” Jimmy starts, thankfully interrupting his mid-morning crisis, “was not because you’re in denial about being gay?”

“Uh, no,” Brady says. 

“What the fuck,” Jimmy says vehemently. “I thought you were having a big gay freak out this whole time. I was giving you space to figure your shit out, you assfuck.”

Brady can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of him even though he knows it makes him sound like a massive asshole. “Yeah, no. Been there done that.”

The laugh Jimmy lets out sounds like it was punched out of him. “Then, what the fuck? You like me, so what’s your deal?”

Brady’s glad Jimmy has enough self-confidence that he doesn’t question Brady’s super obvious attraction to him, but it’s also really inconvenient since Brady was planning on talking about this approximately never. “I… dude, you’re on my team.”

Jimmy just looks more annoyed and he waves his hand in a way that indicates he’s waiting for Brady to go on, so Brady slaps at his hands because he doesn’t actually have anything else to say that will makes things make more sense. Or he does, but he can’t say them yet.

Jimmy pulls his hands back and flicks Brady on the nose in retaliation. “So, we could do… this,” he says, gesturing between them, “if I wasn’t on your team. Like, theoretically, if I was an Islander you’d be with me?”

“I mean… yeah, probably,” Brady says, and he’s suddenly struck with how much he wants that. He never wants to be traded. No one really wants to be traded because team is family, but the idea of it, them both still in New York, playing hockey and being together without all of the drama that would come from dating a teammate. They wouldn’t even have to move. They could wake up in the morning wrapped around each other and no one would be uncomfortable with the boyfriends changing in the locker room together because it wouldn’t be an issue. He aches with how much he wants that, more than he wants Jimmy on his team, and the thought scares him with it’s intensity. “Definitely.”

The fight drops out of Jimmy in a sigh and even though he slaps weakly at Brady’s chest, he lacks the energy to really mean it. “Alright,” he says, eyes tired. He pats Brady’s chest one more time, lingering for the briefest of moments, prompting shivers at the drag of skin on skin. 

Then, he gets up and Brady doesn’t say anything as he walks away.

\---

The way Jimmy acts around him afterwards makes Brady realize he was an idiot for ever thinking Jimmy was reacting nonchalantly to rejection. 

He doesn’t avoid him exactly, but he always seems to look right through Brady, like looking at him straight on would be too painful.

The most jarring thing is that they don’t really touch anymore. Brady’s gotten used to having Jimmy’s head on his thigh or his feet in Jimmy’s lap while they watch television, but Jimmy subtly shifts away when Brady stretches his legs out on the couch and he doesn’t make any move to get into Brady’s space. 

“I just need some time,” Jimmy says, when Brady looks at him with sad eyes for too long. 

Brady gets it. But it’s also like he’s suffering through a breakup and Brady didn’t even date him this time. 

Jimmy spends a lot of time in his room and the living room feels too empty without him in it, so consequently, Brady spends a lot of time out bothering Haysie or, more recently, Mac because he doesn’t ask any questions and lets Brady lay on his couch and watch Timberwolves games. 

It would be fine, because it doesn’t affect their play, but it affects the team anyway, the whole rookie equilibrium off-balance and each time Jimmy sits apart from Brady at team dinners it sends a slew of concerned glances his way. It’s just - this is what he was trying to _avoid_. This is what he was scared would happen and it happened anyway - is happening - and it’s Brady’s fault again. 

It gets to the point where the next time Brady goes over to sulk, Mac stops him from face-planting into his couch, sits him down with a mug of hot chocolate, and stares at him with captain-eyes that can probably see through his soul.

“What’s going on with you and Jimmy?” he asks and Brady gets the feeling he has roughly half a second to answer before Mac amps up to stage two of interrogations, which may or may not include manly side hugs. 

“It’s nothing,” he lies, blatant because his grandmother could even see that there’s something going on through her cataracts. 

Mac looks unimpressed, which hurts because he doesn’t usually look at Brady that way. “Look,” he says, laying his palms open on the table between them, “we’re going to have to talk about it. The boys are worried about you two.” He pauses and Brady takes a sip of hot chocolate to avoid having to look at him. “Did you and Jimmy break up?”

Brady burns his tongue from swallowing too fast, but at least he doesn’t choke, because he’s not sure he could come back from that kind of embarrassment. He pretends that the heat from his drink is the cause of his fierce blush rising to the tips of his ears and says, “We weren’t - we’ve never dated.”

“Together, a ‘thing’, whatever your generation calls it -”

This is quickly becoming one of the most awkward conversations in Brady’s entire life and it doesn’t get any better when he says, “We weren’t even hooking up! Except for, uh, that one time. Sort of. Um.”

“Alright,” Mac is more amused than appalled, which Brady appreciates because it distracts himself from trying to calculate if it’s possible for him to drown himself in the remainder of his hot chocolate. “So, you stopped not hooking up then?”

“We’re teammates,” Brady blurts out, “I - we can’t.” His heart pounds like it’s trying to push all of his blood to his head. He feels sick, a little.

The amused smile falls from Mac’s face. “I don’t know what your deal with this is, but if it helps, every guy that’s been traded to or from Pittsburgh says teammates dating doesn’t affect the team. Makes them more tolerant even. Not like anyone would start a fight with Crosby or Malkin anyway.”

“I - what?”

“Yeah, they’re the worst kept secret of the league, kid.”

He logically understands the words Mac is saying to him, but they’re still settling around in his head, trying to connect into the right order. Brady opens his mouth, though he doesn’t have a response yet. “And it’s… okay?”

Mac comes around the table so he can rest a hand on Brady’s shoulder, tips his head until Brady looks him in the eye. “It hasn’t been an issue for ten years and I don’t think it will be.” Mac’s face shifts, a little more fierce than tender. “Has anyone made you feel like being gay messes with the team? I’ll talk to them if they have, you have just as much of a right in that locker room as anyone else.”

“No,” Brady says quickly. He’s lucky to be on the team he has - traitorous trade thoughts aside - and he doesn’t want Mac thinking otherwise. “No, it’s not… it hasn’t been a problem here. It was a dumb high school thing.”

Mac drops his hand with one last squeeze and moves back to his side of the table. “Well, I’ll beat up some shitty used-to-be-teens if I have to,” he says offhandedly and thankfully drops it when Brady laughs back. 

He feels better, even if he was actually the shitty teen Mac was talking out. 

\---

Maybe Brady’s more fucked up by the Charlie thing than he thought he was. He just… he really messed up and thinking about it makes him feel physically ill and so ashamed of his past self that he has to move to try to escape the reminder of the feeling. He doesn’t want to be that guy again, wants to put that so far in the past in the hopes that by ignoring it, it’ll just go away.

It’s not his most mature plan. It’s also not working.

Brady thinks about taking a shot before he dials, but that’s one of the worst ideas he’s had in recent memory, so he doesn’t do it. He does hide on the floor of his closet though, lights off and wrapped inside the largest blanket he and Jimmy own. His palms sweat, leaving greasy trails on his screen as he slides down to Charlie’s contact. He still has it, just had all of his data transferred over every time he’d gotten a new phone because posting _send your info to my new phone number_ on Facebook would just be asking for trouble.

He counts his breaths as he brings the phone to his ear and listens to the dial tone. He’s being ridiculous. Charlie might’ve changed numbers since then, in fact he probably had. And Brady tried, is the thing, so he can pat himself on the back - baby steps - and try to find his new number in a few years and - 

“Brady?”

Charlie sounds curious, but not annoyed or angry or any of the multitude of things the Brady could’ve imagined. Was imagining.

“Uh, hey,” he says, because he is the coolest.

“What’s up, buddy?” Charlie asks like this is normal or at all welcome. Jesus, what was Brady thinking-

Jimmy. He was thinking about Jimmy.

The thought calms him enough to do what he called for. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For high school,” he adds even though there’s nothing else he could really be talking about after all this time. “I was… a real asshole about - everything.”

Charlie actually laughs at him, but it’s warm, not mean. “Yeah, you broke my fragile teen heart. Don’t worry about it, I’d had enough conversations with myself that I know it wasn’t really about me.”

Brady winces even though it’s true.

“Hey,” Charlie says, humor gone from his voice. “That’s not still a problem for you, right? ‘Cause there’s nothing wrong with you, you gotta know that. I should say sorry too. It wasn’t right of me to have you and her and, like, make it seem like I’d only be with you only if we were out.” And that’s just so Charlie, worrying about Brady after all this time. Maybe Brady was being too hard on himself, demonizing who he used to be, which was only a stupid, scared kid.

“No, it’s okay. I never, uh, thought about it that way I guess,” he says, feeling lighter than he has since Jimmy stopped talking to him. He feels good, brave enough to say, “And there’s, um, there’s actually a guy I’m sort of with. Or I want to be.”

Charlie’s voice is soft and happy over the phone, no hint of resentment at all. “That’s great, B. I’m glad things worked out for you. Really.”

They talk a little longer, five minutes at most, and Brady learns that Charlie did actually make the show, or will at least, just signed by the Canadiens - which Brady instinctively makes a face at - and playing in the AHL for now. They don’t make any promises to stay in touch even though they'll probably end up running in to each other one of these days and that's alright. Brady wasn’t looking for any of that. He doesn’t know exactly what he _was_ looking for, but based on the way his chest feels light and the crippling guilt seems to have melted away, he thinks he might have found it.

\---

Trying to talk to Jimmy again is another story.

It feels wrong to bring it up when Jimmy still won’t quite look him in the eye and Brady admittedly chickens out a few times because the idea of making things even worse makes him hyperventilate. Just saying the words - _I want you. I’m sorry. Please._ \- don’t seem like enough and Brady wants to be more than enough for Jimmy. 

He can’t do a lot of the things that come to his mind because they’re so…insincere; more like what he thinks he should do versus what Jimmy would actually like. 

He settles on making an ugly yet effective blanket fort on their shitty couch, stocks it with beer and those nuts from that one street vendor Jimmy can’t get enough of and just - waits. 

He waits long enough that he rethinks the whole thing, destroys the fort in a wave of self-doubt, rebuilds it, and is thinking about tearing it apart again when Jimmy walks through the door. 

Brady feels dumb, half-standing with a pillow in each hand and the confused, defeated look Jimmy gives him doesn’t help. 

“What’s this?” Jimmy asks, face tellingly blank. 

“It’s a, um. It’s a date,” Brady says.

Jimmy’s face twists up and he turns his head to the side like he can’t school his expression back into the blank mask it’s been for weeks. “Sorry, I’ll stay at Haysie’s tonight then,” he says, shouldering the bag he just put down. 

Brady’s pulse skyrockets. He thought he’d have a little bit more time before he resorted to begging, but apparently that’s not how his night is going to go. “What? No, please stay.”

Jimmy’s face scrunches up even further, defying gravity and seemingly all other physics as well. “I’m not staying here while you… yeah.”

“What? You wouldn’t be - the date is for you. And me. Us. You and me. If you want.”

It’s almost funny how fast the tension in Jimmy’s face melts off his face, but Brady mostly feels like shit that this is so surprising.

“Oh. Yeah, I,” Jimmy’s voice cracks and he has to take a moment to clear his throat. “I’d like that.” He slides his bag back off of his shoulder, ends up just standing there looking lost with his bag pooled at his feet. 

Brady gestures at the general entity that is their living room, hoping he doesn’t seem as nervous as Jimmy looks right now. It prompts Jimmy to take a few cautious steps over and before it can get even more awkward, Brady plops down and pulls Jimmy with him into the comforting plushness of the cushions. 

They’re both out of their element at this point - emotions are hard - so Brady starts the newest Marvel movie that they’d both been intending to watch but had never had the time for while Jimmy stuffs his face with overpriced and over-hyped peanuts. 

The tension between them fades slowly without notice. One minute they’re holding themselves stiffly apart and the next they’re both laughing as Sherlock Holmes - “It’s Doctor Strange, man, the title can’t be that hard to remember” - gets his ass kicked by some kind of magical cape.

At some point Jimmy rests his head on Brady’s shoulder and the relief that he feels at being able to _touch_ again is overwhelming. 

He reaches out, wrapping his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders, tentative in a way that’s become familiar to him in the last few weeks. Jimmy stays relaxed against him and it’s the care reflected in that action that gives Brady enough courage to say, “I’m sorry.”

Jimmy rubs the fabric of Brady’s shirt in between his fingers to show he’s listening and Brady is grateful he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what he’s planning on saying exactly, but the idea of having a conversation about this is daunting enough without asking for answers he’s not sure how to properly articulate.

“I didn’t want to, like, make things weird with the team or mess things up between us because I've done that before and was just a really shitty person about it, but. I mean, I did anyway.”

He pauses long enough for Jimmy to say, “We’ll be okay if we don’t, you know. It’ll be a little bit, but we’ll be back to normal.” It's the way he says it, careful and deliberate, that lets Brady know he's saying it to protect himself, make sure Brady’s really serious about this instead of just doing it because he’s lonely or guilty.

“It’s not - I don’t want normal or, like, I want that, but I want more too.”

Brady can feel Jimmy’s slow, even breaths as he mulls Brady’s words over. His calm bleeds over through Brady’s chest and he’s thankful for it. Even though Jimmy doesn’t seem at all dismissive of Brady’s intentions tonight, there’s still a part of him that is worried he’s a little too late for anything more. 

Jimmy shifts in his arms, turns and is kissing him before Brady can blink.

Brady loses his sense of time for a moment, stuck on the feel of Jimmy’s lips against his own. He had things to say, apologies to make, and he’ll get there, but it’s infinitely more important to taste Jimmy’s tongue and breathe in his sighs. It’d felt like he’d been waiting years for a moment like this instead of just weeks; he’s dreamed and yearned for it for so long that it feels incredibly familiar and new all at once. 

Brady pushes forward, settles into Jimmy’s lap like he belongs there and swallows the pleased groan Jimmy lets out. Jimmy’s thighs flex under Brady’s own, leaving him dizzy at the ripple of strength. He grinds down into Jimmy’s lap, relishes the glide of them together as Jimmy drags a line across Brady’s lip with his tongue. He groans, mind too aware of every touch and delirious with arousal at the same time. His skin burns.

Brady was aware that he had high hopes for the night, but they were much more modest than this; maybe a chaste kiss goodnight before they went to their separate rooms. His lips tingle with the pressure from Jimmy’s lips and he has the frantic thought that he’s never been happier to have underestimated himself.

“I’m sorry,” Brady says against Jimmy’s lips. Jimmy shakes his head instead of answering, pulling Brady in for another deep kiss with his hands on Brady’s face. “Let me show you,” Brady continues, maybe nonsensically, but he has to finish his thought. 

Jimmy pulls back again to look Brady in the eyes. He’s not sure he’s coherent enough to convey anything other than simmering arousal, but considering that’s how he was planning to apologize anyway, it seems to be enough for Jimmy. He shifts up onto the couch at Brady’s prompting, resting his head against the back of it. 

They can’t seem to look away from each other; Brady can feel the weight of attraction between them like a physical presence. He runs his hands down Jimmy’s body as he slides off of his lap to pool in the space between Jimmy’s legs. 

Jimmy’s breath catches even though he doesn’t look the least bit surprised by the move.

“Can I?” Brady asks, practically buzzing out of his skin at the thought of it, finally touching Jimmy exactly how he wants. 

“Yeah.”

The words release a string holding his spine taut and he buckles, boneless into the curve of Jimmy’s spread thighs. 

They’re fully dressed still and Brady doesn’t bother feeling embarrassed because they’re both young and this is so new between them. He can hear the way Jimmy’s breath shakes when he slides Jimmy’s sweats and boxers down in one pull, letting them catch in the snug crease below his balls. 

He wants to wait, admire the look of Jimmy splayed out around Brady’s shoulders, but he wants Jimmy’s cock in his mouth with a desperation that is unsurprising, yet powerful all the same. 

Brady moans at the first touch of Jimmy’s cock in his mouth and Jimmy echoes him in a glorious feedback loop that makes him sink deeper into Jimmy’s skin. Brady’s own dick is aching, leaking out an empathetic drip of precome at the salty burst of liquid across Brady’s tongue. 

He just - he _wants_. The weight of Jimmy’s cock on his tongue feels incredible; he wants more of it, leans down farther to take more of it in his mouth. He's seen it before, the picture of his freshman college hockey photo circulating the internet with the caption, _this is the face of a boy who gives very earnest head_. It's not wrong. It's really not wrong. 

He looks up at Jimmy, gaze cutting through his eyelashes, so Jimmy is ringed by spikes. He knows how he must look, flushed and eager and-

_Christ_ , Jimmy likes it. 

Jimmy likes it so much that he's panting, hands gripped into the couch cushions and mouth open stupidly. Heat licks up Brady’s spine at the way Jimmy can't stop looking at him, desire radiating off of him in waves. He's been wanted before, obviously, but never like this. Never like he's someone's Stanley Cup dreams and post-retirement goals all wrapped into one. 

He wants to impress Jimmy, be worthy of the frank admiration in his gaze, so he sinks down on Jimmy’s cock, pushing himself until he can feel the pressure on the back of his throat. Brady pauses, breathing deep to sink down just that little bit further and Jimmy chokes above him before he reaches out to grab Brady’s hair reflexively. It reminds him of that night on the couch when he’d roughly pulled his own hair on a whim and he desperately wants Jimmy to do it now, even if it means Brady will embarrass himself and come too soon.

“Brady, I want -” Jimmy chokes out, pulling at Brady’s hair in just the right way that makes him keen and choke himself on Jimmy’s dick to get more. He could probably come from this, Jimmy’s increasingly frantic groans resounding in his ears and his own dick pressed against the edge of their couch with the barest of friction.

Jimmy’s words finally register past Brady’s lust-drunk haze and he pulls off enough to say, “Yeah, do it,” as he shoves an impatient hand in his own shorts to wrap around his straining dick.

“Yeah,” Jimmy responds, sounding delirious with it, holding Brady’s head still as he thrusts his hips up. Brady’s hand strips his own dick with a fervor built from weeks of denial. Jimmy’s dick catches at the back of his throat with every thrust, never going further than Brady can take and he just. Doesn’t want that right now. On impulse, he leans in on Jimmy’s next thrust and sucks hard, keeping Jimmy deep in his throat and Brady comes like a firecracker, moaning happily around Jimmy’s cock.

He rests his head against Jimmy’s thigh as he comes down. He keeps Jimmy’s cock deep, doesn’t pull away as Jimmy squirms against the leather of the couch.

Brady sucks belatedly, lazy with orgasm but it’s all Jimmy needs. The hand not buried in Brady’s hair reaches out to grip Brady’s shoulder and he squeezes hard. Brady’s not prepared for the bursts of come that spurt into his mouth, but he doesn’t mind the bit that slips past his lips. 

Jimmy makes a choked sound from above him. Brady would maybe feel more smug about it if he wasn’t slowly relearning the definition of bliss at the feel of Jimmy’s fingers slowly carding through his hair. 

Their breathing slowly syncs up. Brady’s knees start to ache with the pressure of resting his weight on them, but he wants to chase the peace for a little longer. 

Jimmy laughs, shifting Brady’s head on his thigh. Brady tilts his head just enough to see Jimmy’s grinning face. Jimmy’s thumb catches on his skin near his chin scar as he wipes the come off of Brady’s face. His eyes are fond and Brady is stuck.

“Guess I’ll take you back,” Jimmy quips, snarky. 

Brady shoves at Jimmy’s knee, but doesn’t try to hide his pleased smile.

\---

And it's - Brady is fully anticipating an irrational freak out the next morning. He's had enough of them for the past couple of months that they're almost second nature, so much so that when he wakes up curled into Jimmy the way his heartbeat stays slow and steady is completely foreign.

He keeps expecting it to happen for the rest of the day: while they're eating breakfast together, thighs comfortably pressed together on the couch as they watch QVC; on the way to practice, holding hands as they walk out to Haysie's car and taking his good-natured mocking about how it's fucking time; and in the locker room, when everyone seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief and then start to roast them in the next breath. It never happens. His chest feels light and fluttery all day and his dimples may actually never go away based on how often he's been smiling.

\---

The next time his mom visits, she doesn’t even finish hugging him hello before she says, “Are you going to keep lying to me about using that extra room or can I just put my things in there now?”

He doesn’t roll his eyes because it’s his mom and she would somehow know and then make him do insane things to make it up to her like cook for himself as punishment. He grabs her bags and starts organizing them into some semblance of order in the backseat. “No, Mom, you can have the room. We’re, uh, Jimmy and I are dating.”

His mom pauses from where she’s moved to open the passenger side door. “Oh,” she says, soft and a little surprised, hand pressed to her chest the same way she does when she sees a small animal. “Oh, honey.”

“What?” he asks, confused enough that he gets nervous, jerking back too quickly so that his head knocks against the top of the open door frame. 

She waves him over and pulls him into another hug the moment he gets close enough. She feels tiny in his arms and he hugs back, bewildered. 

“It's been so long that I almost thought you were never going to date again,” she says, which is horrible to hear because it means she knew about at least one of the times he had sex in their basement (probably more. There were many). “I thought you were just having some fun with that boy,” she pulls back enough to look at him with teary eyes and this is already infinitely worse than the conversation with Mac, “but I’m so happy you found someone, sweetie.”

“I, uh…” he trails off, doesn’t really know what to say to his mom about this exactly (and the details aren’t really something he wants to get into ever), but he knows how he feels when he’s with Jimmy. Thinking about it that way, it’s easy to say, “I’m happy too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points for whoever knows the nut vendor in NYC I referenced! Also if anyone is ever willing to beta I would super appreciate it and I'd love to talk to anyone on [tumblr](https://fiveandnocents.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
